


The Path of Totality Is Narrow

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Implied First Time, John Knows Astronomy Stuff, M/M, Romance, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sherlock’s soul is singing. This is what he has allowed himself to think about sometimes, not in the light of day and not in sight of John, not often, just every now and then. And he’s terrified that he’s just made the worst mistake of his life.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Path of Totality Is Narrow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt: Eclipse of Sherlock’s heart – "Turn around, bright eyes" (which is a lyric to Bonnie Tyler's song 'Total Eclipse of the Heart'). I'm not normally drawn to song prompts, but the eclipse imagery was hard to pass up.

 

 

 

 

John is out with someone new.

Sherlock is stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling in the dimly-lit sitting room, fingers steepled below his chin. He’s angry with himself.

_‘Jealously is so beneath me. But why, why does John persist with this dating lark?’_

Sherlock knows why.

_‘Because he wants the “once upon a time”. The “happily ever after.” So he persists. Oh, but not I. I am not interested in romantic relationships. Told him that from the start. Made it true. Undeniable. A certainty. Like much of his beloved primary school astronomy. A simple bit of quantifiable data. An obvious fact. And it always has been true. But–’_

The door.

Feet on the stairs.

_John._

Sherlock feels a spike of nervousness. Which is foolish. Pointless. He studies John. A calculating sweep with his eyes. Up. Down. Then back to the ceiling.

Another dissatisfying date. Also foolish. Also pointless.

“Tea?” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock closes his eyes, drifts in one soft layer of darkness for a while until he can sense a shadow pass over his eyelids and the darkness deepens. He opens his eyes and John is there, leaning over him, a cup of tea in his hand.

“Here you go.”

The only light in the room at the moment is behind John, so Sherlock can barely make out his features in the gloom, but he thinks he sees him smile. So Sherlock smiles back. He can feel, more than see, John’s eyes on him. It should be intimate, but it feels guarded. _‘There’s always a barrier. John keeps it there. I convinced myself I needed it, so I put it there and now he keeps it there too. For me.’_

Sherlock distantly realizes that it’s only in this type of feeble light that he and John seem to feel it’s safe to really look at each other. Never in bright, clear light. Never where either of them can really be sure of what they are seeing.

And then, like that, it ends. John steps away, taking his shadow and affection with him.

~~~~~~~

A case, a chase, a fight, some blood and Sherlock panics at the sight of John slumped against a rough brick wall in a damp alley. Sherlock runs up to him, casts a shadow across him, kneels down in front of him.

It’s only a scratch on his face and the wind knocked out of his lungs, and the fact is that John will recover quickly. But in that instant, that very isolated second in their shared timeline, that fact doesn’t seem to matter and Sherlock reaches out, wraps his gloved hands around the back of John’s neck and shoulder and pulls him forward into the light, into a kiss.

It’s too gentle and full of careful intent to be written off as just an uncontrolled rush of adrenaline, but still the edges of it are heated with desperation. It’s shockingly warm in contrast with the bleak winter air.

And John is kissing him back.

_Sparks._

Sherlock’s soul is singing. This is what he has allowed himself to think about sometimes, not in the light of day and not in sight of John, not often, just every now and then. And he’s terrified that he’s just made the worst mistake of his life.

John breaks away and they stare at one another, deep and unblinking, for what seems like an endless minute, clouds of briskly-heated cold rising up between them in gasps.

John laughs softly, and it sounds surprised and a bit self-deprecating, like he just realized that a seemingly complex question actually has a ridiculously simple answer, then he says in quiet awe, “The path of totality is narrow.”

Sherlock has no idea what that is supposed to mean. Is it good? Bad? He falls into the bottomless blue of John’s eyes and has a difficult time trying to find his way back out. “John... you lost me.”

“You two ok?” It’s Lestrade, running down the alley, followed by Donovan.

Sherlock lets go and John drops back, the shadows once again slipping across his face.

Suddenly Sherlock feels disoriented, like he’s trying to resurface from some great depth. He turns to Lestrade and says, “Yes. We’re fine. Same as always.” And then he’s on his feet like none of it happened.

They finish the case, go home, and John eyes him expectantly. But Sherlock just retreats alone to his own room and so John retreats to his and there’s no mention of the kiss.

A week later John goes out on another date.

~~~~~~~

Sherlock’s been held captive in the empty, windowless room for a couple of hours now. It’s pitch black except for a very thin sliver of light under the heavy wooden door. He’s tried everything he can and there’s no way to get out.

He sits on the floor in the far corner with his back against the wall, his arms wrapped firmly around his knees. The air is stale and there’s a buzz in his head from the fight with his captors. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for John to come round and save him.

There are raised voices.

A gunshot.

Two.

Footsteps.

_John._

“Sherlock?”

“In here.”

“Get away from the door.”

“I’m not near it.”

Another shot and the door splinters. Sounds of wood and metal giving way, and then the door flies open, harsh light spilling in and filling the void of the room. John stands in stark silhouette in the doorway, his shoulders slumping in relief.

He strides forward, kneels, places himself so that he’s not blocking the light, puts his hands on Sherlock’s illuminated face, touches lightly around the darkening bruise on one high cheekbone.

Sherlock blinks against the sudden deluge of light, twisting away from the brightness of the hallway towards the softer light bouncing off John’s face. Before he realizes what he’s doing he’s surging forward, pulling John into a tight embrace. John brings his arms up around the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s soul is singing again. Restless and wild and still terrified. He lets go abruptly and refuses to look John in the eye.

“Home,” John says.

~~~~~~~

Later Sherlock stands, stares blankly out of the window down onto Baker Street which is cloaked in the black of night.

There’s the soft sound of tentative footsteps behind him.

“Sherlock” he hears.

“John,” he says to the cold window pane.

“Sherlock, turn around.”

“Why?”

“So I can see you.”

Sherlock huffs out a weary laugh. “See me?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock stares at the dark reflection of himself in the glass. “Are you sure you want to?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, tips his head down and whispers, so low and fragile that John can barely hear him, “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t. Now turn around.”

Sherlock turns, opens his pale eyes. He feels helpless. “I don’t know what to do,” he says unsteadily. “I don’t know how to do this. Us.”

John slowly, so slowly, slips his arms around Sherlock’s waist, leans in to rest his head against the side of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s arms slide up to wrap themselves in a distraught tangle around John’s neck and shoulders.

Warm.

Right.

_John._

“I need you,” Sherlock murmurs.

John holds his breath. “Just tonight?” he asks quietly.

Sherlock’s fingers tighten in John’s shirt and hair. “No,” Sherlock says. Then thinks, ‘ _Not just tonight. Forever.’_

John leans back. Looks at him. _Sees_ him. Kisses him. Leads him upstairs.

Takes him.

And Sherlock lets himself fall apart.

~~~~~~~

Sunlight, morning-bright, spreads across the sheets. Across Sherlock’s face. And John’s.

“What did you mean?” Sherlock asks, his head on John’s bare shoulder, his arm around John’s waist.

“When?”

“In the alley. You said ‘The path of totality is narrow.’ I looked it up. ‘The path of totality is the path that the moon's shadow traces on the Earth during a total solar eclipse.’ I don’t understand why you said it.”

John snorts. “Wow, I’m surprised you didn’t delete that the second after you read it.”

“John,” Sherlock says, his tone stern but tinged with poorly-concealed amusement. “Explain.”

John hesitates, then speaks, winding his way slowly through the words. “All right. Um... well... if you are standing in the path of totality during a solar eclipse then the moon is directly between you and the sun. So you can’t see the sun at all. You can only see its corona, its edge, the... dark impression of it. It’s amazing but the... heart of it... is hidden. Masked. So I think sometimes that makes it easy to forget that behind that mask, the sun is very much whole and just waiting for the eclipse to end. So it can be seen.” He clears his throat and his body tenses slightly.

_‘He’s getting a bit embarrassed.’_ Sherlock deduces, and smiles a little to himself.

John soldiers on. “But I was thinking that the thing about the path of totality is that while it is very long it is also very narrow. So I suppose theoretically you could follow the length of it... try to keep yourself in its shadow... keep the moon directly between you and the sun as the Earth revolves, so you could keep believing that the sun really is dark. Or... you could choose to move outside of that narrow path, change your point of view, so you could see behind the mask and see the sun the way it really is. The way it _wants_ to be seen.”

It takes a moment for Sherlock to understand what John is trying to tell him. _‘Ah, a romantic metaphor.’_ Out of hard-forged habit Sherlock wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. Instead he allows himself to actually feel the warm flutter in his chest and turns his head briefly to press a kiss onto John’s shoulder. Then says, “Looking directly at the sun is unsafe.”

John relaxes with an exhale then laughs softly and threads his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Yes well, I seem to be attracted to unsafe things.”

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agrees. “And they are attracted to you.” He shifts a little and tilts his head back so he can look into John’s eyes in the bright, clear light. Once again Sherlock falls, gets lost in that bottomless blue, but this time he doesn’t want to find a way out.

 

 

 

  



End file.
